For the Love of Cheeses

Reggianito, Argentina.

It is no secret to our friends that we are slightly cheese-obsessed. In fact, Benji's mom gave Juan a gift of artesinal cheeses (cataloged on a spreadsheet) at our last meeting.   It is something few urban gay men would admit, given cheese's bad reputation for the waistline.  We say it is worth an extra 30 minutes on the treadmill for a pot of fondue, purposefully losing the bread to search with our spoons.

Of course, being a sponge Benji is attuned to this.  One of his first food words was "cheese". We started with mozzarella, with some treats of cheddar and sprinkles of Parmesan. And I have always been careful to avoid giving Benji the raw cheeses, the extra-moldy, the super-sharp and the unidentifiable. Until this weekend.

It was at the Summit, NJ farmer's market that I broke my own rules and let my cheese freak flag fly. Out came the goat cheese, the blue cheese, the raw-milk and the spreadable cave-aged. Out came my wallet.  Benji was right there, like a baby bird with his mouth open, pointing and begging: Cheese?  Cheese?  Cheese?

Are Americans alone in our fear of germs?  Do other countries sanitize shopping cart handles with disposable wipes?  Can we please just enjoy some milk that has been curdled with sheep's stomach acid and left to mold in a cave for months without being pasturized - without feeling guilty? Is that too much to ask?

I fear it may be, as the looks I received from the Jersey moms as Benji gorged on fetid feta and piquant percorino were anything by creamy.  Let me tell you this:  he was fine. No, he was in heaven with some of the best cheese we've ever had.  Just like letting your kid on the subway by himself or walk to school - to paraphrase Mame Dennis- life is a cheese tasting and most poor suckers are eating Velveeta. If eating some real goat cheese is now the new bungee jumping, strap us in. And put some cheese on it.